Mouths

Consumers, Hi!

We are your mouths

We eat you out

Of home and house!

We like your kids,

We love your wives,

But most of all,

We want your lives!

Send bits and pieces,

Pixels, pics,

Whatever you like,

We’re mouths not dicks!

We’re flexible,

Textible, and it’s true,

We all have teeth,

All smiling at you!

So, feed us faces,

Fingers, shit,

We don’t care,

We asked for it!

For we are Just:

The huge abyss

That yawns beneath

The things you kiss!

 

 

 

 

The Pixies of Possibility

Irreverent things, small and free,
they normally dwell in dells, or woods,
where Now is a tree and Later might be
a house in a river, in one of its moods.

Above us they flutter, wings buttering
the oleo air like Wonder Bread;
they fling cinders from fires, uttering
the magic words: Maybe, Perhaps, Instead.

They turn Comedies into Tragedies,
the kind of Despair that dances with Joy:
for hit by a bus, or a passing breeze,
a frustrated toddler flinging a toy—

it’s all the same. A Possibility,
when photographed, will always appear
as a luminous smudge—like poetry.
Nothing threatening, nothing to fear,

I’m sure that you have seen their lights,
I’m sure you’ve also heard their song,
looking up from a book on one of those nights
you heard a siren hurtling along.

Hocus-Pocus

“Hocus-pocus, you’re a crocus!”
a sudden flash of purple said.
My thoughts must turn to Spring because
I carry dirt inside my head.

A Villanelle for St. Valentine

When I consider the curve of your cock
in even this mild, mathematical way,
I notice strange images start to knock.

Sticky things, mostly, and things made of rock.
A petrified marshmallow showed up today.
He either was stale, or scared by your cock.

So, I sent him away. A while back Bach
appeared at my door. He started to play
a sort of pipe organ. Bach did not knock.

Nor did his friends. He arrived with a flock
of cherry-faced cherubs and a golden bidet
with the weirdest fixtures—all curved like your cock.

Now, very few stores keep cherubs in stock,
which is why I thank God for Bach and eBay
whenever strange men with strange instruments knock.

And speaking of knocking, I think I forgot
to mention something. What I meant to say
concerned a key more than it did a cock.
This is for you. No need no more to knock.